Certain Demands for Uncertain Domesticity
by CGKrows
Summary: Amidst the flying battle involving seven Potters, one just so happens to disappear; and it's the original. By some stroke of madness, Harry finds himself drenching wet from the river Thames and face-to-face with a man wearing an eyepatch. Demands are made. A strange new world is thrown in a wary young man's face while Aliens bring chaos. (REPOSTED)
1. Out of the Cold River, Thames

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, to those who most likely read and reviewed this already and wonder what's going on... _THIS FIC GOT REPORTED AND TAKEN DOWN ON THE GROUNDS OF IMPROPER CATEGORIZATION._ Apparently, in one of the chapters, my use of the f-word offended someone. Welp, I'm reposting it. And, it's now M. So, yay? I never understand why this happens to me. Read and review again. Enjoy?

* * *

Amidst the flying battle involving seven Potters, one just so happens to disappear; and it's the original. By some stroke of madness, Harry finds himself drenching wet from the river Thames and face-to-face with a man wearing an eyepatch. Demands are made. A strange new world is thrown in a wary young man's face. Nothing is left untouched.

* * *

Chapter One: Out of the Cold River, Thames

* * *

Possibly, and without much doubt, one of the most unwavering features in Harry James Potter's life since he had received his letter from Hogwarts would be chaos.

As soon as the words, "You're a wizard, Harry," fell from the part-giant Hagrid's lips, the youth had been plunged into a hidden world built entirely on the maddening quirks of people who could use magic. Magic itself seemed to dictate the wild state of the magical realm within the real world; the vibrant yet wacky outfits, the strange sense of dangerous humor, the haphazard education system that could very easily leave a young twelve-year old dead for wandering into a library. And somehow, beyond all that bizarrely controlled mayhem, little Harry Potter was a miraculous celebrity. The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the positive yang to the Dark Lord's negative yin. It was his supposed destiny to always stop the extremely evil wizard named Voldemort from ever rising again; him, nothing but a boy who only had his wits and a stick of magic-bound wood. Harry did pretty well on that task for a number of years, until his fifth year at Hogwarts. The Tri-Wizard tournament had been rigged, and from his blood as well as a very dark ritual, Voldemort rose, snake-like yet hauntingly humanoid. Chaos was truly unleashed upon his young life, and it all lead to the present conglomerate of madness.

Thick clouds above London's great sprawl flashed and roared, destructive malice rolling within against defensive good. Spells clashed like thunder, booming against Harry's eardrums and howling around the air. The young wizard clung to his sidecar, trusting heavily in Hagrid's motorcycle skills as they flew through the airborne havoc. The part-giant's large figure immediately drew the gazes of numerous Death Eaters, brooms shooting after them through the cloud cover.

Adrenaline abruptly rushed through Potter's veins. Everything came into focus; dull in coloration and weak in vibrancy, deep shadows tracing clouds and wisps of fog. The spellwork rushing through the sky were spatters of bright hues. Harry's mind jumped, his wand suddenly bursting with an eagerness under his fingers to act. Color association and raw instinct had the young man in startling overdrive. Harry turned sharply in the sidecar, bellowing out against the wind as his wrist snapped out.

"Stupefy! Stupefy!"

Brooms veered off, rounding ominously over the teen's head, boomeranging around to rocket straight at them. Black robes flapped in the high wind like a dementor's ragged cloak, skeletal masks eerily reflecting the light from ignited magic. Harry could barely hear Hagrid's booming warning of hold on! with the pounding of his heart so inexcusably loud in his ears. The wand in his grip responded immediately to his wishes, though the spells he had in mind that split second were ridiculous despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Avis Accipitres!" he shouted, watching as the spell Ollivander had once used form, though with some decent modification.

Potter's wand sputtered blue, feathers exploding from its tip and rearranging into relentless raptors. Hawks, falcons, a few angry-faced horned owls… and with a quick mutter of Oppugno in the Death Eaters' direction, the summoned birds were all but fierce claws and furiously sharp beaks. Harry had somehow, in his sudden desperation, remembered that strange spell of Avis, and with what general magical schooling he had with Latin, figured the word Accipitres would make it a little bit more threatening. He was desperately thanking Hermione in his mind for helping him on that parchment assignment not too long ago.

The dark-serving wizards lost control of their brooms shortly after being assaulted by pissed off predatory birds, spinning out in the strong air currents and dropping to the world below the clouds as dead weight. Hagrid gave Harry a confused yet appreciative look behind his riding goggles, barreling their flying transportation ever forward through the deadly turmoil. Potter's green eyes caught flashes of his friends, some transformed in his mirror image, others maneuvering their flying mounts away from stray spells.

Another group of Death Eaters took their former comrades' place, this time more aggressive and not so overly confident. Spells rained down on the motorcycle, and the teenager riding in the sidecar bravely shot counterspells and quick deflects against the barrage. A few glimpses of Mad-Eye gave Harry a reprieve of seconds, the elder Auror easily sending the enemy packing until he flew off to aid the others. The aerial battle was becoming a game of tug o' war, one side pushing and the other shoving back. A number of Potter's summoned raptors were still kicking, snatching at any passing Death Eater and causing some focus to be lost. Either way, the flashy battle was lurching closer and closer towards the river Thames.

It was when their irate skirmish was directly over said river that everything became a bit more unclear. Potter remembered Hagrid activating his fiery boost of magic out the motorcycle's tailpipe, the sudden attack of speed forcing him back into his stiff leather seat. He awkwardly gripped the sides of the sidecar, eyes widened slightly from surprise. Their group fell back in time with them, trailing after with a hail of defense against the following enemies. It seemed as though the Death Eaters were falling back, and the air ahead unopposed. In that second of good fortune, Harry Potter believed it was over.

But in the next second the sidecar was not attached to Hagrid's motorcycle, Harry was spinning backwards, and like ice in water, slipping out from the seat and falling away with the undeniable strength of the harsh air against him. Hagrid's bellowing voice echoed above, the explosions of colliding spells ringing as phantoms in the ear. A splash of snow-white bloomed in Potter's vision, slapping into his chest and digging deep. He gasped at the incited pain, until he realized the attack of white mass was in fact a frantic Hedwig, her yellow eyes full and wings flailing. Without another thought, he hugged his faithful companion to his torso, ignoring the talons biting deeper into his flesh, and took one last gasping breath. The dark water of the Thames met him shortly after, swallowing Potter and his pet into watery darkness.

* * *

What was only seconds under the surface felt like hours to Harry Potter. The vicious bite of the chilling water temperature stung his skin, and his poor owl spasmed hysterically in his arms. Pain had taken his mind for a few moments, and the shocking impact with the freezing water numbed Harry quickly. Millions of air bubbles rushed around the young wizard's figure, escaping to the surface hurriedly. With their disappearance, light broke through. Why? It had been the middle of the night when he left Surrey. It was not daytime, not by any means. Yet with a sudden need, Potter shoved his questioning thoughts aside for the world above.

Head thrown back, mouth gasping in the open air, Potter kicked rapidly with his frozen limbs to keep his upper body out of water. Hedwig was able to breathe as well, but shivers violently racked through the snow-white raptor. Owls didn't exactly have waterproof feathers like their fellow birds of prey, and not even an owl that lived in snowy, wet climates could escape that looming fact. Harry couldn't help but mutter a few dark curses at his luck, seeing as all he had at that moment in the Thames was his wand, his charmed-small trunk in a jacket pocket, the clothes on his body, and the soaked avian clinging to his front. At least his trunk had also been charmed to be weather proof in every sense of the word, many thanks to Hermione yet again.

Glancing around with droplet-covered glasses, Harry tried to ascertain the level of trouble he was truly in. Compared to the dour conditions of the aerial battle he'd just fallen from, London appeared brighter. It always seemed brighter to Potter, seeing as his pitiful Little Whinging, Surrey was an all-too-quiet and subdued suburbia. But London was even more vibrant than he remembered, which was quite strange. The young wizard had an exceptional visual memory for things, and he didn't remember there being a muggle named Stark plastered on a stacked bus as an advertisement. Harry spotted the vehicle in question driving by the Thames, rolling off down the street parallel to the river toward some unknown location. The very air Potter breathed felt, or should he say tasted, different.

Hermione went off on an academic tangent once about magicals having a certain sensitivity for changes in the natural magic; something to do with a wizard or witch's magical core attuning to the surroundings. Harry couldn't recall the exact details at the moment, but he had a hunch his weird feelings of unfamiliarity about a place he'd visited for seven years had something to do with that.

Which, in his very serious state of mind, was not in the least bit good.

But instead of pulling a Ron Weasley and freaking out, Harry let out a very uncharacteristic sigh. The young man never did get a break, honestly. For once Potter would like to not have to worry about something dangerous or displaced. But NO, he had to be suffocating from prophecies, destiny, apparent obligations to the Wizarding World, dark lords-

A careening screech from Hedwig cut off his thoughts. Her wings, though wet, flopped around. Harry immediately focused on his precious companion.

"Hedwig, it's alright! Calm down, girl!"

He wrestled his arms around her, folding her soaking appendages to her vibrating body and gripping the owl tight. The avian's yellow eyes were trained above them, and her screeching continued to heighten in volume. Finally Harry bothered to look up, only to instantly regret it.

A jet, shaped and sculpted in a form that looked to be something straight out of Dudley's bizarre science fiction films, was flying directly in their extremely wet direction. Potter couldn't help but let a few select swears to slip from his mouth. The muggles saw him, they're driving a ridiculous yet intimidating plane, and he'd probably just broke the Statute of Secrecy yet again! Ron and Hermione were going to be right-pissed for sure. And, despite having gotten E's for most of his OWLS, proving he was actually a good and smart Hogwarts student after all, the young wizard had no idea how to react in this situation, either as a muggle or as a wizard.

Harry stroked the wet down atop Hedwig's little head, quelling most of her screeching to the point she was only insistently crooning. The river water lapped at his shoulders, droplets splatting against the young man's jaw. Closer the jet came, and in little to no time, it hovered above the wizard. Waves pushed angrily at him, stirred by the air currents the plane created. A hatch opened, rope lines were lowered, and rough hands grabbed at his biceps. Hedwig released an ear-ripping trill, causing the faceless men to flinch as they pulled the poor, soaked wizard from the Thames. Potter was literally thrown aboard as soon as he was close enough to the hatch, back slamming into the hard metal of the flying beast with Hedwig crying out defensively.

Wiggling free from Harry's arms, the snow owl squealed and flailed. The wizard stiffly sat up, extending out his right arm for the owl to perch on. Quickly she scuttled up his outstretched appendage, firmly digging her talons into his shoulder. His eye twitched minutely at the pain, but ignored it. The hatch, or perhaps the ramp, closed sharply after he slammed into the floor. Potter found himself sitting in a growing puddle of river water, surrounded by men who pulled away black face masks and armed with guns. Muggle weapons, Harry thought tensely. The wizard did nothing but stare back.

Behind him, heavy footsteps resounded in the compartment. Hedwig swiveled her head faster than Harry could turn, giving a loud screech in warning despite her scruffy, wet appearance. The steps halted. Potter finally turned, taking in the sight of the new stranger.

It was a man, that much was obvious. His arms were bare, bound in a level of muscle that seemed excessive. A heavy, purple-black vest covered his upper torso. Militaristic pants and boots clad his lower torso. The man's hair was cut very military, with some sort of vambrace clasped to his right wrist. His pale eyes, however, were eerily sharp. They peered at Harry with a light of deep thought, but seemed hesitant in the face of Hedwig's presence.

"I'm really fucking skeptical on whether or not you'll tell me, and I'm doubting a kid like you could have been the cause of it, despite being right where the whole damn thing originated, but… Are you the cause of the power flux in London?"

Potter blinked. The man was American; a blunt-speaking, harsh-language-using American. "Excuse me?" he said, feeling extremely out of his depth.

The American sighed dramatically, then tried again. "Power surge, kid. The source was tracked, and you were right where it started. Don't play games."

"I honestly don't understand what you're getting at, sir," Harry responded, attempting to sound sincere. He really didn't know about any sort of power surge. And, as far as he knew, magic was untraceable to Muggles. Was he wrong in thinking he broke the Statute?

His questioner's expression dashed his hopes of freedom. He turned on his heels towards the pilot of the jet, their short, blazing red hair reminding Harry heavily of the Weasleys. "Gettin' no cooperation out of this kid, 'Tasha."

"Just secure him then, Clint. The helicarrier is not far off, and Fury will want answers."

'Clint' nodded, "Right."

The American turned on his heels; in seconds Harry was roughly shoved, buckled, and secured on the hard metal of a bench. Hedwig had fallen off the poor wizard's shoulder, screeching angrily and shooting straight at the rough-handed men. Her beak tore away a large chunk of flesh from a nose, each claw ripped one cheek per person, and a severely unlucky man nearly lost his left eye. Wisely they backed off, staring in morbid wonder at the white-feathered owl. Hedwig returned to Harry's shoulder, glaring all the agents down. 'Clint' was impressed in a backwards sort of way.

After a while, the men settled down. The sharp-eyed male didn't choose to sit, standing at somewhat of a distance, but did continue to question Potter.

"Well," he said, "If you're apparently none the wiser on the power surge issue, what's your name?"

Harry just stared. "You can't seriously believe I will give you my name, sir."

The American smirked, "Don't talk to strangers then?"

"If that's how Yankee kids are, then no."

"At least you're not lacking in sarcasm," the man mused. "Where'd the owl come from anyway?"

"Her name is Hedwig," Potter emphasized.

"What, like the saint?"

"Yes, like the saint."

"Hmph," Clint huffed. The agent was running out of questions. "Ever been to juvie?"

"Juvie?"

"You know, Juvenile Hall. Some place they put underaged kids when they break the law."

"You mean youth prison? No, I haven't ever broken any mu-legal law."

'Clint' eyed the teen, "Uh-huh. Okay then, what about mutants? You know one, you are one, what?"

Harry blinked bewilderedly, "What are mutants?"

Another huff escaped the American, "I'm starting to think you've lived under a rock."

Potter couldn't help but spit back angrily at the man. He was just about out of patience, and the young man's nerves were fried.

"Actually, it was a staircase."

The agent stilled completely. What?

"Like shit," he said immediately.

"Uh, no," Harry answered, forgetting himself. With a level of sass only a brit could pull off, "I literally lived under a staircase for the early years of my childhood until I was eleven."

Clint wisely went silent after Potter's last comment, leaving the ride to wherever they were going silent the rest of the way. Hedwig watched anyone and everyone diligently, head swiveling around at the slightest movement. Harry, on the other hand, dozed. The young wizard was wet, sore, and bleeding sluggishly from where Hedwig's talons had dug into him. The minor injuries were just that, minor. So, without fear of falling into a blood-deprived coma, Potter lightly napped. It wasn't as if he could rightfully attack the muggles with his wand. Flashes of the aerial battle drifted behind his eyelids, tiredness making them all the more vivid, alongside the brief moments of free-falling and submergence. The nagging questions still hovered in Harry's mind: why did the air feel so different? How could the muggles find him, track him, and possibly suspect him of using magic? Did they even track him, or had they apprehended the wrong person (being Harry) instead? Why was he flying in a peculiar muggle contraption that seemed fresh from a science fiction movie?

A squeak from Hedwig, directly into his ear, shocked Potter out of his idle dosing. The young wizard's body immediately tensed, eyes sharply staring at 'Clint' and a very beautiful red-headed woman.

"C'mon, kid, time to meet Fury."

Harry glowered, but said nothing. He really wished they were magical; at least then he could give them a piece of his mind. Man-handling wasn't his favorite thing.

The woman strolled forward, her hips moving with a definite sureness, releasing all the restraints and hauling Potter up by his free shoulder. Hedwig chittered in warning at the alien female. She simply stared, managing to quiet the owl with the sheer will of her gaze. Harry found himself reluctantly astonished.

The pair lead him out of the jet, a stern grip on each bicep, sunlight briefly blinding the wizard. Blinking it rapidly away, Harry almost stumbled at the scene presented.

They were in the middle of the ocean. Churning water framed the foreign concrete island on all sides, waiting planes dotting his sight and marching squads of personnel stomping by. Harry's green eyes tried to identify the patches on their shoulders, the geometric eagle encircled by an abbreviated title, but found his memory lacking in information. England didn't have anything like that around, at least in the small scope Potter's muggle life provided. It was definitely a militaristic operation though, and judging by the black-clad team that had snatched him up from the Thames, the operation could easily be something covert. Maybe Dudley's ridiculous spy television shows were useful for something after all, he thought.

Clint slid a card, and with a push, Potter was lead further into the strange concrete ship he'd been whisked off to. Clint and the redhead shoved him along through a maze of metal-lined hallways, eventually stopping before a set of heavy blast doors. Yet again Clint slid a card, and with another shove, Harry was standing awkwardly before a vintage mahogany desk with a black man sitting sternly in a fine leather office chair. Hedwig crooned, adjusting her grip on Potter's shoulder while shaking out her feathers.

Wordlessly, the dark-skinned man gestured at the open chair in front of his desktop. Harry glanced unsurely between the stranger and the seat, rather eyeing the unknown individual than following polite decorum. A black leather eyepatch covered the stranger's left eye, opposite to Moody's right all-seeing glass eye. His clothing assemble included more black leather, such as a long, black leather trenchcoat and matching combat boots. Underneath was a plain charcoal turtleneck, accompanied by slim grey cargo pants. Angry scars peaked out from the eyepatch, crawling further up his bald head.

"Are you going to keep staring, or will you sit down?"

Harry considered him a second more, then decided to carefully sit. Hedwig flapped her wings, drawing the man's one dark eye for a moment before returning his singular gaze on Potter.

"Now, why were you in the Thames, kid? Decided to take a swim?" he said rhetorically.

"No, sir. I technically fell into the River Thames, with Hedwig in my arms."

"Hedwig? You mean the owl on your shoulder?" He pointed at the snowy raptor.

Harry nodded, saying nothing. The man narrowed his singular eye.

"Will you answer my question, son? Or do I have to say please?"

"I can't, sir, not without breaking a Statute that I already broke once today. If I break it twice, I will probably be thoroughly sacked."

"What statute?"

"A Statute of Secrecy. I can't exactly go against it without losing rights to certain belongings of mine."

"I've never heard of it, so I don't see why you should attempt to withhold pertinent information."

"What would be the point of a Statute of Secrecy, sir, if you knew it existed? It's secret," Harry answered sarcastically.

"Kid, I'm big brother; government in every way, shape, and form. If that damn Statute ever existed on this green Earth in any capacity, I would be aware of it. So you better start sayin' something useful before I rip it out of you."

Potter glared. The elder man returned it thrice-fold. Five minutes passed until Harry sighed with weariness. He was honestly tired of arguing and trying to uphold the propriety of the Wizarding World. The rules never seemed to do anything against him anyway. So...

"I was traveling to my godfather's home in London with a number of my friends and members of an anti-Voldemort group known as the Order of the Phoenix by broom and various flying creatures or vehicles," Harry said officially. He remembered how the Ministry often liked their formal speech, so he assumed this man would as well. "Death Eaters came out of nowhere and attacked us. We nearly escaped them when one well-aimed bombarda damaged the side carriage of my friend's motorcycle, sending me free-falling into the Thames. Hedwig flew with me as I descended."

The eyepatched man, despite displaying himself as an unmovable personality, appeared for once at loss for words.

"Explain this, and any other details that will help me clarify, again."

And it was like that, with awkward explanations, sharp interruptions, and a very long story later, Harry came to realize that maybe he wasn't where he was supposed to be. The man's questions, which varied from mutants to gamma radiation (whatever that was), also offered plenty of hints. Something about his fall was incidental, and obviously magical. How else could he have such a wild problem like this? Only issue, glaring impatiently in the chair across from him, was who the stranger was and where he currently sat in retrospect to reality.

"So, lemme get this straight: You're a wizard, an apparently famous one, who was chosen by some wild prophecy as the Messiah for an entire society of magically-gifted human beings? And, just to add, you're only seventeen with a pet owl, your parents' inheritance, and a measly stick of carved wood to your name."

Potter grimaced. When someone put it that way, he felt like a puffed-up idiot. "Yessir."

"Can you prove to me your… status as a wizard? 'Cause some hocus-pocus with your wooden stick?"

Obligingly, Harry pulled free his wand, pausing to show the eyepatched man across him. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the young man said aloud, "Defodio."

A large chunk of oak was gouged out of the desk, peeling away to reveal the very pale wood underneath its polish. The chunk plopped plainly before the other man, who stared at it with a mixture of interest and displeasure. Harry repeated his movements, muttering, "Reparo."

The hunk flipped right back into place, cementing itself into the desk without a single indication it was ever carved out. It was apparent on Fury's face that the demonstration convinced him.

"I've been a part of this organization for an uncountable number of years; in that time, I've never seen someone using magic."

One dark eye looked up to meet two emeralds. "Kid, what you've just described to me isn't something that exactly exists here. That fall you took dumped you in the wrong place; that much I can tell you. I wasn't kidding when I said I'd know of Statutes from any sort of government. Your Wizarding World is not here, not on this Earth. We've got just about every possible extraordinary thing but magic, which is either a damn good thing or a shame.

"As for you personally… I can give you secure housing, a basic account balance for living, an identity, and a car. Beyond that, I won't do anything else. It's clear, with the way you're glaring at me, you don't trust me; the feeling's mutual, kid. It's not everyday a massive power surge disturbs the United Kingdom and my agents bring back a soaked teenager from the Thames who can use magic."

Harry scowled. "Just who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Nick Fury, director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division; better known to numerous officials and organizations as S.H.I.E.L.D. We deal with the extraordinary, would-be international threats, and any extraterrestrial interaction that happens on Earth. So, you're not the first wierdo to walk through those blast doors," Fury said with a smirk.

"So I'm a threat then?" Potter said darkly. The comment reminded him too much of Fudge.

"For all I know, you could be," retorted the director, "I don't know. This is a give-take situation, kid. You have to cooperate with me if you want to get anywhere in this world."

The young wizard felt cornered. New world, new rules, and an entirely new chess game. And, to top it all off, Harry wasn't the best at chess. Ron was, he his best mate was not there with him. He desperately wished, in that moment, Ron and Hermione had indeed fallen into the Thames with him. At least one of them would have had some kind of idea on what to do. But he was alone, seemingly stranded in a foreign world so much yet so unlike his own. Harry tiredly sighed. He'd have to accept this Nick Fury's offer, most likely. Being who he was, a wizard and would-be Savior of another world, he counted as an extraordinary person and a possible threat. Muggles never did stand a chance against Magicals, and Fury apparently realized that on his own.

Harry looked up to the dark-skinned man's single eye. "I'll accept your offer, sir," he said stiffly.

"Good," Fury said shortly, standing from his chair. "You're going to have a roommate in your apartment, just to warn you, since we don't exactly have lots of free S.H.I.E.L.D. housing with teenagers in it. You'll be shipped off to New York in a few hours. Try and get along with your new roomie; I really don't want to have to make special accommodations."

The director offered a hand. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Harry James Potter."

The-Boy-Who-Lived only felt sick and uncertain at the idea.


	2. Accepting Terms and Terrifying Realities

**Chapter Two: Accepting Terms and Terrifying Realities**

* * *

Just as Nick Fury had promised, it took only three hours of sitting alone in an aircraft carrier with Hedwig perched moodily on his shoulder until a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent appeared in front of Harry to send his sorry buttocks to New York. The carrier was as labyrinthian as the staircases in Hogwarts, and Harry struggled to keep up with the wild twists and turns he'd been told to follow. Eventually, he resurfaced on the asphalted deck of said carrier, surrounded by unending ocean, where that same pair of agents who had delivered him stood waiting before the wonky jet that delivered him was he was now.

Potter bothered to study them both, more specifically the curvy redhead, as he strolled over to the odd pair. The archer bloke he'd eyed before, and it was almost painful how American he was. The woman seemed Bulgarian, or from somewhere where people just seemed to have that hard air about them. Russian, maybe? Poor Harry wasn't as talented with people as he could have been, which he could easily blame on the Dursley's. His early childhood really and truly messed him up. Hogwarts helped him a lot, but all that socialization didn't fix everything. That, and the only person Potter had for a decent comparison in mannerisms to the redheaded woman ahead of him was Victor Krum. She was very pretty, anyway, and not lacking in obvious curves. Taller too, but that did not come as a surprise. Just about everyone was taller than the young wizard nowadays. Her skintight, leather catsuit had him mildly uncomfortable. It was just about _blasphemous_ , with how suggestive it made her appear.

"Ready to go, kid?" asked the man, Clint.

"Are you two the ones taking me to New York?" Harry deflected, glancing at that strange jet behind the pair.

"Yes," answered the redhead blankly, her empty brown eyes directed at him, "And hopefully you and your owl won't be any trouble."

Harry didn't answer, walking up the ramp of the jet instead. He wasn't sure he liked that redhead. Hedwig warbled at the pair of agents as he passed them, scrutinizing Clint, who shifted immediately away out of clawing range. Potter found himself back into his seat on the jet's bench, buckling in by himself. It was a nice change. The young wizard's clothes were still unfortunately wet, and sitting around in damp fabric wasn't an enjoyable experience. Yet again, he wished Hermione was there with him; she'd probably know a spell that'd dry his clothes. Not long after, all three of them were loaded aboard the jet and flying off to Metropolis.

"So…" started Clint. Harry bothered to glance at the archer, mainly out of politeness that had been drilled into his being since he was a child.

"You're a wizard?"

"Err, yes," Potter answered awkwardly. That director bloke must have told them about his meeting with him. Truthfully, he hadn't expected the agents to try and strike up a chat. A tiny part of him wanted to tell them to just _clear off_.

"That lived under a staircase in his childhood."

The teenager wanted to simultaneously combust like Finnegan could when attempting spellwork, or start throwing hexes. He was fine with either choice. To hell with clearing off, he might as well clear them off himself!

"Yes," he affirmed again, stiffly.

The muscular bowman glanced to the redhead who sat in the co-pilot's seat, who glanced emotionlessly back. His expression conveyed a vague sense of compassion, and she kept her mask of neutrality. The male agent turned back, and unfortunately did not drop the conversation.

"Not a really great early life, then," Clint said.

Harry could tell the man wanted to know details, but went dancing around the actual conversation. He could understand, to a certain level, the reasons the man was fishing for answers. Potter had done the same thing more times in his life than he could care to count. But something about it struck the wrong cord, hit the incorrect key to his tune. The young wizard huffed in agitation, a tightness suddenly seizing in his chest, eliciting some rapid change in his control that he could not interpret, leaving his emerald eyes flashing at the archer with a second's warning.

"Bloody hell, _yes!_ " he burst. A rush of anger bled through his veins, his scar burned, and Potter's ribs ached much like they would when he was overcome with a torrent of emotion sent through his link to the Dark Lord. "I lived in a cupboard underneath my _damn_ aunt's staircase until I was eleven, and my life hadn't exactly been _peaches and cream_ , alright?!"

Hedwig skittered about his shoulder in a worried fashion, crooning softly by Potter's ear in hopes of calming him down to manageable levels. Clint had slightly recoiled, and rightfully so, having found himself surprised by the abruptly anger-fueled outburst from the teenager. Natasha had actually flinched in her seat up front; and _that_ was saying something.

Inwardly, in the confines of his being where his heart wasn't forged from unrelenting steel, Clint Barton felt for the kid. His childhood hadn't exactly been a cakewalk either, though apparent domestic abuse the teen seemingly displayed and the hard life as a circus performer Barton had dealt with were completely different cans of worms. Not that Clint Barton could say that any S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or would-be superhero that existed on his Earth had the most whimsical start; just about every single one involved some kind of life-changing event that ultimately left them with a few daunting skeletons in their closets. Clint could safely say that his partner had more than a few hundred skeletons rattling in her closet. Now he wondered what kind of skeletons rattled in the closet of a seventeen year-old wizard from another world, another _Earth_. Those hyper-green eyes were chaotic with bottled-up emotions, and pain seemed to dance briefly in their depths.

 _Sometimes, I feel like Fury doesn't pay me enough for this job_ , the archer thought sardonically.

"Kid, I'm not judging you," he eventually said, with all bluntness. "Welcome to the international organization that's S.H.I.E.L.D. and all that. We're literally a secret government group filled with sop stories. But, I gotta' ask you to wait a few years before you try to be a full-on agent; you're anger management needs some work."

Harry took a few calming breaths as Hedwig continued to croon in his ear for comfort. The archer's weak attempt at dry humor resulted in a faint twitch at the corners of the teenager's mouth. But, in truth, he was far too busy trying to wrestle himself back into control to relish in amusement. Damn, his anger never did seem to be manageable after his fifth year at Hogwarts, though he thought now, being in a different world, his connection to Voldemort would be obsolete. _Bollocks to magic_ , he thought bitterly, trying to remember what little Snape taught him about Occlumency to siphon off his emotions. The young wizard restrained himself from reaching for his scar; it pulsed like an oversized concussion on his forehead and he wasn't about to start another ridiculous conversation with the bowman across from him.

Riddle was still alive in Harry's world, collecting followers and gaining power with every hour he wasn't there. He and his friends had all finally decided to actively hunt for horcruxes, the scattered pieces of Voldemort's soul. That surely wasn't going to happen, unless Hermione had miraculously discovered a lead to follow. Ron would surely follow her, and perhaps they'd take somebody else along. The young wizard almost hoped, however strangely, the two managed to drag Luna Lovegood into the hunt. Despite her unorthodox perception of the world and the weird references to nargles, Luna's keen insight about anything and everything in the magical world was basically profound.

Of course, Hermione would be driven absolutely mad and Ron wouldn't know how to behave around the platinum blonde, but the thought was just that… a thought. So much had happened during his most recent year at Hogwarts: elder teenage drama, Malfoy's plot to get the Death Eaters into the castle, being Quidditch captain, Slughorn's parties, discovering the potions textbook owned previously by the Half-Blood Prince, learning about Tom Riddle, briefly discovering his affections for Ginny, going to that seaside cave with Dumbledore to procure a decoy horcrux… and watching Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age, die by Snape's-the Half-Blood Prince himself-wand. Harry's two best friends had promised him before they'd left for summer to forego their last year at Hogwarts to join him in hunting horcruxes, all for nothing. They were teenagers, _kids armed with fancy sticks of wood and whatever wits they had_ , taking on a _life-threatening_ mission to destroy Voldemort in his _entirety_. Everything that had occurred in the magical world was because of one orphan's hunger for recognition and power, as well as the inspiration his preceding Dark Lord had given him. From there, the prophecy that surfaced to counteract his emergence went on to forsake Harry's future; it ended his happy road of childhood before it could even start and threw him in with the Dursley's. Why was so much strife given to someone so young? Why did the future generations have to fix the problems and mistakes of their predecessors? How could Harry James Potter even hope to solve this predicament when he was stranded in a completely different reality?

"I'm not sure I want to be an "agent," or whatever you're trying to say," the youth managed to choke out.

Clint shrugged. "Your choice, kid. The option will always be there for you, probably. You're still part of S.H.I.E.L.D., now that Fury has put you under protection. There are a lot of people, bad people, who'd jump at the chance to study you."

Potter, still trapped in his indeterminable mood, rolled his eyes. Hermione would be proud of his ability to look like a know-it-all with only an eye movement. "As if muggles-err, non-magical people-could ever understand magic," he said, "Even wizards don't completely understand magic; it runs on a very loose set of guidelines that, at times, randomly decide not to stay true." Harry had to admit, he really did sound like Hermione in that moment. Perhaps all the listening he did over the years had paid off in its own way.

The archer raised a skeptical eyebrow at the young wizard. "Really? No plain and simple hocus-pocus?"

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, which helped with his frightful emotional mess going on internally. "No, no simple hocus-pocus."

"Can you show me any of it? You know, nothing that could get Natasha trigger-happy, but something easy?"

Potter blinked, almost mimicking his owl. _Natasha must be the woman_. He wasn't entirely sure if it was safe for him to perform any spellwork on the jet; he knew very well that muggle electronics did not like magic very much at all. And, the jet he was in was most likely over very large bodies of water. The young wizard was not keen to go diving into the ocean.

"Err, magic doesn't exactly react well muggle electronics," Harry said to the archer, "And I don't want this jet to go spiraling into the atlantic."

Clint made a face, somewhere between awkward and pensively ill. "Yeah, good point."

Conversation between the wizard and S.H.I.E.L.D. went on intermittently like that, with Clint Barton asking very silly questions about magic and Harry easily squashing or confirming most of the common-thought concepts muggles had about wizards. Hours quickly passed, Hedwig dosed on her owner's shoulder, Potter's clothes dried, and Clint managed to get a promise out of the teenager to have his favorite bow magically charmed to be self-repairing. The young wizard didn't suffer, what he assumed to be, another emotional episode caused by his connection to Voldemort. He didn't bother to dwell too long on why You-Know-Who was angry; it seemed like the sod was always having a childish but madly destructive tantrum. The jet landed atop what seemed to be a nondescript office building minutes after Harry finished his thought process, the ramp slowly lowering to his left. Unbuckling and straightening his clothes, Harry followed the archer and his feminine partner out of the transport, finding himself faced with a middle-aged man with a pleasant smile gracing his visage. He wore a neat black suit and tie, an earpiece in one ear, and his hands folded in front.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," he spoke amiably, with a complete air of professionalism while offering his hand. "Agent Coulson; welcome to New York."

"Thank you, sir," the wizard responded in kind, shaking the elder fellow's hand. He was mildly surprised the man hadn't reacted to the sight of Hedwig; even Nick Fury had given his owl a brief look of consideration. His beloved owl stared at the fellow, anyway. She was protective as ever, if not more than before. Harry couldn't blame her.

"I'll be your handler during your time in S.H.I.E.L.D; Money, living arrangements, the works. You'll probably be seeing a great deal of Agent Barton and Romanov in the coming weeks, since they report to me. Shall we?"

Harry just nodded. Hopefully the balding fellow would lead him to the flat Nick Fury promised, and he could try and reconcile with the mess he'd found himself in peace. He trailed after his supposed handler, entering the office building and once again finding his person in yet another barmy labyrinth of hallways and elevators. The wizard couldn't seem the escape the complicated nuthouse these government muggles operated in. It was worse than the Ministry of Magic, by far. At least the magical folk that worked there were predictable in their bizarrity; these dunderheads were not, which was unsettling.

"As the director most likely told you, you'll be sharing an apartment with someone close to your age-"

Ironic, because the director _didn't_.

"-She's… eccentric, but she's a good kid once you get past that. The supplied income by our organization is sizable enough for you to be able to furnish yourself and purchase the necessary living essentials, so you won't have to worry about job hunting; though, there is always a possibility for you to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. if you ever grow interested.

"Your identity is the same as your own: Harry James Potter, born in London, England, etcetera. We've created all the documents you'll need to function in the real world, from the birth certificate down to your social security number. If you need access to any of those documents, just give me a call. Here's your ID and phone; it's the newest StarkPhone model."

Coulson handed the wizard what looked to be a half-inch thick rectangle of glass and an American identification card. They somehow managed to get a shot of him, which didn't make any viable sense, and the plastic card was a cheery blue and yellow scheme with **NEW YORK STATE** at the top. But the supposed phone… Potter stared blankly at it, completely confused as to how the curve-edged piece of mineral could be a phone in any sense of the word. He'd been born in 1980 and had somehow left his world in the year 1997 thanks to a sporadic magical event; the closest thing to a cellular Harry had ever seen was a blocky hunk of plastic with a short, singular antenna and plenty of buttons. His England still heavily used their public telephone boxes!

"Sir," he interrupted with a tone of uncertainty, "What year is this?"

The agent paused, gazing at the teenager with concern. "Two thousand twelve; it's the 12th of January."

To say Harry Potter's face was composed upon hearing those words would be a lie; his countenance turned an unholy shade of white that even Draco Malfoy would struggle to match. Bloody hell, he was in a world ahead of his by fifteen years! Merlin's beard, he technically was _thirty-three years old_. Was this what it was like for a wizard or witch to be stranded with a broken time-turner? No wonder the Ministry regulated the damn things; Hermione could have suffered from a magical anomaly during their third year and ended up stuck in Hogwarts' future.

It wasn't like Harry needed any more stress than having to figure out a way home, find his two best friends, go on a hunt for horcruxes, and vanquish the madman who was out to wreck the magical world! No, 'course not… The universe was _simply out to kill him!_

Agent Coulson, now showing undeniable concern on his face for his new charge, stopped their walking. Clint looked worried for the teenager too, and Natasha had a slight expression on her face that bordered between vague interest and mildly perturbed.

"Are you alright there, kid? What's wrong?" asked Clint, coming up beside the short wizard.

"I'm thirty-three…?" he muttered, not really seeing anything ahead of him as his thoughts whirled chaotically in his head. Hedwig didn't like the rapid emotional change that was happening to her owner. She clicked and crooned by his ear, ruffling her snow feathers in distress.

It was one thing to learn some strange magical event landed Harry in some alternate world that was similar to his own. There was a possibility you could try and trigger the event again with spontaneous magic or a powerful enough spell, so said Hermione's musings about magical theory. Harry could do that; a patronus was a complex enough spell, and so was _Sectumsempra_ to a certain level _._ The problem he faced, before realizing his time leap, was fixable in an optimistically theoretical sense. And, in addition, it could be done within a few months or weeks of experimentation. But, it was another thing to learn, _altogether_ , Harry'd essentially been pushed forward in time and spatially displaced via magic. If he tried to hop back, he could possibly be sent somewhere else completely. Magic, as he had stated to Clint, was a very fickle thing. Either scenario could result in more harm than good, anyway, since magical experimentation had a habit of tearing off limbs or singeing eyebrows. _I'm really trapped here_ , Potter thought numbly. His world was doomed to suffer under Voldemort's rising reign of terror for sure.

Coulson and Clint shared a silent conversation as they looked at each other. "What year was it when you were in your world, Harry?" Coulson questioned carefully.

"Ni-Nineteen ninety-seven."

Clint blinked in surprise. "Shit, kid, you really are thirty-three."

Natasha frowned at the two agents, staring at the young wizard. "Great, another Captain America case. At least he doesn't have to catch up on more than twenty years."

"Nat," intoned Clint, hoping she'd take a hint and not continue her train of thought.

But Harry caught what she had said, his head swiveling in her direction. "Somebody else has been through this blooming mess?"

Coulson grimaced. "Not exactly like yours, but he's from the forties. He's been trying to catch up with about sixty-nine years of history for a year."

"What happened to him?"

"He got frozen in the Arctic, found, and essentially defrosted. The guy was still alive in the ice," Clint quickly explained.

Potter couldn't help but share in Agent Coulson's grimacing. "I'm not sure I know which one's worse: being frozen alive for decades or having a flash-magical event send you to another world while nearly drowning in the Thames."

"I think they're about even," Clint decided.

"Will I meet this bloke in person anytime soon?" Harry wanted to meet the poor bugger who was basically dealing with the same situation. Maybe the guy had tips; the young wizard could hope for some decent company while he _desperately_ tried to think of a way back to his world via magic, in any case.

"Depends on whether or not he wants to meet you. His initial dealings with S.H.I.E.L.D. were less than exemplary," responded Coulson.

Harry just smiled falsely. He'd say the same thing, except he was finding himself becoming strangely fond of the archer named Clint and increasingly tired of his life being a clusterfuck of bullshit.

"Shouldn't we be off then?"

* * *

New York, New York, Harry James Potter found, was a bustling avenue for nearly all walks of life. His London had been a diverse place, no mistake. But the Metropolis was on an entirely different level; and it was severely lacking in space. The roads were crowded with traffic, the sidewalks packed solid with pedestrians, a number of restaurants he spotted whizzing by were overflowing with customers. Various storefronts lined the streets, from Italian pizzerias to the everyday American corner grocer. Living complexes and businesses were sandwiched in between, tenants coming and going.

The young wizard witnessed all of this from his window seat in the back of a black sedan, with Clint and his partner driving in front with himself and Coulson behind. They were driving Harry to his shared flat, and the pair had been turning every which way just to reach a very unmemorable street with a solid brick flat building that was apparently owned completely by S.H.I.E.L.D. He was starting to see a pattern with these muggles; they prided themselves on making everything in their lives overly complex and difficult. Harry had never really noticed it before, since a greater portion of his life was spent at a magical school combating Dark Lords, but he certainly noticed it now. No wonder those pureblood snobs detested muggle society so much, if they made driving to one's house such a long-winded escapade! The Dursleys were so tame in comparison to these busy, city-going Americans.

Stopping the car in front of the large brick complex, Coulson obligingly got out and held open the door. Potter stepped foot on the sidewalk, nodding politely in thanks, before glancing up at the place he was going to be living in. The windows were plain, generally. There was a rusting fire escape barely visible around the corner, and a trash-filled alleyway around the other. Fresh paint trimmed the panes of glass, the front wooden double doors, and the lower region of that rusting fire escape. It was an old structure, then; Harry quite liked old. Old like Hogwarts, old like the Burrow, old like half of the magical community. He passively wondered just how old it really was.

But above, at the top floor level with the fewest visible windows, someone had those glass panes pushed open. Aluminum basket planters, bolted firmly into the brick with stiff metal supports, stuck out over the sidewalk. Pots of various sizes and colors sat there cradled safely, leaves, branches, vibrantly-colored flowers, and lengthy stems pouring over the sides and draping down as a natural curtain. The windows below were actually left in shade because of the untamed plant life, and obvious signs of the neighbors attempts to trim it back were visible from where Harry stood. Weirdly kinked branches growing sideways with burrs along the sides, leaves missing tips or sliced nearly in half, little signs such as that. The main reason those windows undeniably grabbed his attention, however, was because of the riotous, crookedly rhyming music blaring out from somewhere inside.

" _Fuck cops, I'm a fuckin' rock star! Rebellion and defiance makes my motherfuckin' cock hard! Fuck pigs, fuck guards, all so fuckin' retard! Fuck school, I'm a fuck up, fuck Harvard!_ " The recorded singer paused for a beat, the banging of his background instrumental vibrating the windows. " _I ain't got no fuckin' money, hey Mom! I ain't got no motherfuckin' daddy, he ain't teach me shit! Child support ain't come, that fag still ain't bought me anythin'! Fuck the fat lady, it's over when all the kids sing!_ "

The harsh chorus continued on, ranting about 'radicals' and mixing in a wealth of insults that vaguely reminded him of when Slytherin sang their demented tune toward Ron during one of their Quidditch matches sixth year. Only, the curses were unabashedly harsh and very American; he could say that the Slytherins at least went about their insults with a certain degree of class and decorum. It was probably why Harry _very_ reluctantly respected those snakes; they were cruel, but they never went so far as to lose their snobbish behavior. Their parents were another story, obviously. But, either way, he was both quietly amused by the wild racket and surprised. Hedwig kept pivoting her head from her perch on his shoulder, apparently as unsure as he was when it came to reacting to the noise. The worse he ever heard was Ron saying 'bloody hell' or something similar. His immaturity wanted to laugh at the foul words, but his British manners wanted to gasp in affront.

Agent Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose, the corner of his right eye twitching violently. Potter could hear Clint guffawing from his seat behind the wheel of the black sedan, and the redhead had an unreadable smirk twisting her lips as she stayed in the passenger seat.

The balding man offered a forced smile, one that threatened to break at any moment as more foul language poured out from the open windows above them. "Let's go in."

Without ceremony, Coulson strode quickly to the front double doors, shoving them open a little harder than necessary and stabbing the upwards arrow for the elevator. The lobby was empty, clean, but as old-fashioned as the outside. To the far right of the elevators, a door labeled LAUNDRY stood slightly ajar. In the opposite direction, there were stairs. Hedwig clicked her beak absently by Harry's ear, and eventually the elevator arrived to take himself and the agent to the proper floor. He watched as the elder fellow pressed the topmost button, and the wizard couldn't restrain his smile.

 _Right to where the riot's happening_ , he thought.

Sluggishly, the lift ascended, vibrating disjointedly below their feet as an ominous warning to the residents that the hoist in question needed repairs ASAP. Potter had half a mind to whisper a _reparo_ to quell his building anxiety about possibly dying by failed elevator, but the looming fact that technology and magic didn't mix halted his desire. Coulson didn't show any sign of worry, but the twitching in his right eye appeared to have increased in frequency and repetition.

When the celebratory chime finally ringed overhead and the doors retracted, the agent was brisk and evidently on a silent mission to silence the destructive uproar resounding through the halls. Harry hurried behind, jostling the white owl on his shoulder as he trotted after the surprisingly quick man ahead of him. It didn't take long for Coulson to find the door he looking for, and when he did, his fist was just about warping the wooden barrier with sheer force of will.

"MS. JACOBS!" the agent yelled, smashing his knuckles against the door.

Music was all that met them. "- _Fuck your traditions and fuck your positions! And fuck your religion and fuck your decisions! See they're not mine so yo-"_

Coulson huffed. Harry's face became tinged with concern. The balding man didn't seem like the sort to lose his composure easily. But, apparently he was confronting his trigger.

"OPEN UP, MS. JACOBS! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! DON'T MAKE ME KICK DOWN YOUR DOOR AND WATCH SUPERNANNY ON YOUR HD TV!"

" _-u gotta let 'em go! See we can be ourselves but you gotta let us know!_ -"

Then the racket cut off. The silence following it was eerie, almost, until Harry could just barely pick up the faint shuffling of feet behind the threshold. There was also muffled grumbling.

"...Fuckin' secret agents and their demands," a voice groused, sounding more than a little bitter. "Can't seem to be able to enjoy quality rap music in the privacy of my own abode before they fuckin' storm my door and demand reparations. Who are they, fuckin' Woodrow Wilson and the Treaty of Versailles? Well, they came knocking ninety-two years late, the assholes…"

A deadlock tumbled, the knob twirled, and the door wrenched back to reveal a unique sight.

"Is that you, Phil? You could have texted; you know that, right? I would have known to tone it down."

 _Red eyes._

That struck Potter first, the sight of her was a very short list of living things who he knew possessed red eyes; most of them were magical creatures. The odd one out on the list? It was Voldemort, the Dark Lord himself.

But, while that snake's eyes glowed hauntedly as if his very soul burned in agony from being ripped apart so many times, this person had eyes akin to dried blood or a rusted tin can. Their pupils were murky, slightly off color. The texture of the iris was different than a normal iris, too. Geometric, like there were little blocks assembling together to create the overall color display. As the person tilted their head slightly towards the bright sunlight behind them, the rust hue dissolved into a bright, cheerful cherry red. _Sort of like Tonks and her habit of being indecisive when it comes to her eye or hair color_ , the teenager thought distractedly.

It was a girl, anyway, marginally taller than Harry but not enough to make the wizard uncomfortable. Slightly older too, by maybe a year or so. Skin toned to a farmer's tan, heart-shaped face, pale rose lips… her hair didn't seem to make much sense. It was obviously a dark brunette, but when the light caught it at a specific angle, it looked richly auburn. The girl's eyebrows and lashes matched that, and her mop tied up in some sort of ponytail-barclip mess. One of those ridiculously large T-shirts hung off her lean frame, the words **Got Milk?** emblazoned across her flat chest (If Clint were there, he'd snicker at the irony). Baggy sweat pants, a pair of reading glasses hanging around the neck by a woven necklace, and very bare feet had Harry raising his eyebrows at the bizarre image she created.

"So," she said, those strange red eyes staring nonplussed into his, "Are you the wizard?"

The-Boy-Who-Lived was going to hex Nick Fury in the next century if that eyepatched man kept this up.


	3. The Person With a Plant Problem, Roomie

**Chapter Three: The Person with a Plant Problem, the Roomie**

* * *

The young wizard who had unluckily found himself in another reality, Harry James Potter, didn't have a chance to answer the _red-eyed_ teenager standing in the threshold of his new home before Agent Coulson decided to speak instead.

"Should I bother asking how you know anything about this young man's background?"

She passively shook her head, those eyes rippling between rust and vibrant cherry as the sunlight from behind danced across her face. Harry was mildly entranced by the phenomenon; he'd never seen that happen before with a person. _Definitely not a Metamorphmagus, then_. He still felt a little unsettled by fact her irises were such a provoking color, but there was no possible way she could be related to Voldemort. She'd be serpentine, for one, and it just wasn't sensible.

"No, but I can tell you anyway. I got an encrypted file sent to my computer from an unknown sender; the encryption work reminds me of Tony. You guys should bother trying to hire better program security dudes. I mean, it's probably futile to even _try_ to keep Tony out, but you might as well give the man a challenge."

The teenaged girl was casual in delivering her story, gesturing with her hands intermittently but mainly conveying everything through the tones of her voice and various facial expressions. That rust-cherry red gaze kept glancing at him and Hedwig, lit with curiosity that was only held at bay by conversation. His owl crooned in her direction; apparently she thought the teenaged girl was friendly.

The balding man sighed for what seemed to be the fifth time that day. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Because T-Money is a paranoid genius with too much time on his hands. The file was created and filled recently. Knowing his AI, it showed up on the radar, the nutbar read it, and then sent it to me because _reasons_. He still sends me emails, did you know?"

"Are they still lesbian porn images and jokes about trees?" the agent asked tiredly.

Potter couldn't hold back his incredulous expression at the words _lesbian porn_ and _jokes about trees_ being used in the same sentence. _Porn and trees?! What kind of person is this bloke Tony?_

She shrugged, as if it wasn't that much of an abnormal happenstance. The female teen seemed to posture in the threshold like she wanted to talk to Harry and kick Coulson out, but she seemed to hold back her words out of politeness. _Very British of her_ , Harry thought.

"Yeah, but there's also two paragraphs or so of friendly chatter and mild frustrations involving sweaty workmen and elevators! I'm actually kinda happy our friendship has finally evolved from being fourteen year-old level to eighteen year-old level. Some of the porn he found was just beyond ridiculous."

"I don't know why Fury had thought it was a good idea for you two to meet each other back then," Coulson lamented with all weariness. He turned to the young wizard, "Anyway, Harry, meet Cora Jacobs, your roommate for the next few years."

Running on manners, he offered his hand, which she took. She smirked at him in greeting. "Nice to meet you, Harry. It's actually Corita, not Cora. Cora's just the name on my birth certificate; my mom's always called me Corita, and the relative I'm named after was called that despite being officially named Cora."

Harry boyishly nodded, being the awkward teenager he was and because he didn't really know how else to act around an-admittedly-pretty girl. Red eyes aside, of course.

"Harry Potter," he said back, giving the girl his last name.

"Sorry about the rap music. I know some guys don't really like it like I do, but yeah. Tyler, the Creator is a pretty good rapper in my opinion. Says some valid sh… uh, stuff. Your owl's a bit of an unconventional pet, but he-she looks pretty cool. Aah, do you want a tour? I can show you around the apartment n' shit, and I can probably whip something up for you to eat..."

There was no denying that she was as comfortable with Coulson being there as Harry was. Potter wanted to get inside, claim his room, and get to know what kind of person Cora-ahem, Corita-was before falling asleep so deeply, even Ron's snoring wouldn't rouse him. Corita didn't seem to want to keep up her more eloquent way of speaking, and already began to fail in the endeavor. She opened the door more, Harry moved forward to walk in upon immediate understanding, Hedwig leaned toward Corita chittering enthusiastically, and the balding agent seemed prepared to follow after. Too bad Coulson didn't comprehend the complexities of teenagers. As soon as the young wizard was just past the doorway, Jacobs had shoved the door forward to leave only a fraction of space for her face. Potter barely glanced over the place before he turned, watching her brace the front door with her body weight. The pair of teens seemed to synonymously decide that it was time to kick the adult out of the area. A taunting expression was there on Corita's countenance, smirking deviously at the elder man.

"Bye, Phil. Tell Clint I hope he liked my music, and Natasha that she's the number one badass with boobs. If Fury wants to contact me, make him call or send an angry text message. _Buh-bye!_ "

Coulson opened his mouth to yell, eyes alight with insult, when the door promptly slammed in his face. The pair of youths stood silent, almost conspiratorily, listening to the muffled speech in the hall. Eventually, the agent gave up, his sigh audible through the door. His footsteps faded off, and the chime of the elevator sounded his departure.

"Good, the stiff's gone!" Corita announced, twirling on her bare heels to Harry. "The guy's great, but you looked ready to dash. Now, let me reintroduce myself: I'm Corita Jacobs, but most people call me Jacobs or something that involves sunshine or plants. I find I don't really care, so you have plenty of leeway on that. Anyway, welcome to our apartment n' all that kind of shit," she spoke, much more comfortable now that she didn't have to hold back her words. The girl played slightly at overdramatics, but it seemed she did it for humor, as she smiled widely at Potter with cherry eyes vibrantly staring at him. "I'm a mutant, you're a wizard, and now we're both under the supposed protection of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Harry smiled at her a little uncertainly, mainly because her reintroduction was a bit too forward and brashly American, but he did find himself liking her vague overdramatics and honest friendliness. Corita Jacobs seemed to be no Lockheart, thank Merlin, who had been so overdramatic and fakely golden that he couldn't stand the man during his second year. Jacobs, in contrast, performed it as an almost antagonistic display, a dry form of humor that was strangely charismatic in its design. Fred and George were like that; purposely overdone when they wanted a laugh out of someone but still carrying an undertone of indistinct mischievousness. But, her last comment mildly confused the young wizard.

"What _is_ a mutant?" He wondered honestly. Clint Barton had asked him the same thing when he'd fished him from the Thames. It had to be something specific to the reality he was in; he'd never heard it before when he was with the Dursley's.

Corita blinked, realization filling her red eyes. "Oh," she said plainly, "I didn't think of that; the report I got said you were from another reality-slash-world, and I forgot about the detail.

"Well, it's a bit hard to explain it if you don't have a certain amount of understanding for science. Aah, do you know anything about biology?"

"The basics, I guess," Harry admitted, fumbling a bit. It was strange when someone already knew _everything_ about him beforehand. He didn't really know what to say as he wasn't clear how much the person remembered learning. _Bollocks to Fury._ "I'd started magical schooling when I was eleven, but I attended muggle-normal school before that."

Jacobs' brow furrowed in thought, arms subconsciously crossing. She wandered away from the small entryway into the apartment space, fingers fumbling with the glasses hanging around her neck, giving Harry his first view of his new home.

Much like the aluminum planters cradling painted flower pots outside, the comfortable abode was filled with plants. Not in an overwhelming sense, but there wasn't any doubt in Harry's mind that Corita had a green thumb like Neville did. The place had old-fashioned hardwood floors, musty antique rugs from Russia and the orient strategically placed about the main living area. One laid under the modern, low-sitting coffee table and three little finger pots with common daisies growing happily as a centerpiece. It was framed by a comfy-looking, upholstered couch and a matching television stand. A flatscreen TV sat atop it, with the remote perched a few inches away.

Behind that small setup, another rug was placed; it laid underneath an office arrangement, the wooden desk pushed up against the wall under a window and the office chair tucked in. Papers were strewn all over or precariously stacked, a laptop lay closed, and a flower pot filled with meticulously-cut bamboo decoratively integrated into the mess. To the left, a counter space and kitchen stood, blown glass containers for furry moss and dwarf plant species set about in a very attractive fashion. The window that had the aluminum planters outside was in fact the kitchen's window, and a music system was shoved into the corner between the sink set and knife holder. A two feet to the right, a closet door stood closed. Across from it to the opposite wall of the room, the door leading to the hallway where Harry assumed the rooms were located stood as well. Anything farther right than the closet door was full of tables and shelves laden with more planters, pots, and containers with all sorts of flowers, tree saplings, vegetables, ferns, cacti, grasses… there were even a few unnameable exotics that looked a bit questionable in nature. An exceptionally dirty rug laid underneath all that green chaos, dirt darkening portions of it and water stains turning its previously rich fibers into washed-out patches.

In all, Harry was actually happy with what he saw; comfortable, a tad messy in places, personalized, and not too over the top. More like at the brim of overdone, similar to most of the magical world, but not to the point it was akin to Umbridge-pink-cat-rubbish or something as extreme. The muggle gizmos were not what he was used to, but he had a feeling he'd figure them out eventually.

"Hmmm…" Jacobs pondered aloud, "So that means you basically did all your magic shit from middle school on… makes sense from what I read in that report…

"Okay, uh, I'm gonna' try and explain this… a mutant, you see, is a human-person, muggle, whatever the fuck-who has a unique genetic makeup. Or, in layman's terms, inherited an extraordinary mutation from the parents. Apparently, people have, over time, generated a dormant trait. Scientists call it an X-gene, which can give people extraordinary powers. Like, I know a guy who can shoot fire from his hands or melt metal just by touching it. There's this chick too, who can control the weather; it's hella cool but fucking terrifying. So, parents can have a kid and the kid inherits this trait that could kick in and turn them into superhuman beings. That, the mutated superhuman being that's got unique traits that no normal human has, is a mutant."

Harry's face had scrunched, trying to assimilate what his new roommate had told him and the new setting around him at the same time. He wasn't an idiot, but the teenager hadn't been in the muggle school system for a while. Potter did manage to know what the phrase _genetic makeup_ meant, surprisingly, due to Dudley once managing to shove overdue science assignments at him to finish in his place. The sod thought that if Harry finished it all and he turned it in next term following the summer break, he'd up his marks.

"So," he spoke, "If you're a mutant… then what's your extraordinary power?"

Corita made a face, as if she was trying to think of the simplest way to explain something vastly complex. "Do you know what an animal cell and a plant cell is? What it looks like, etcetera?"

He bobbed his head, remembering more of his cousin's unfinished homework and thanking Merlin for the backwards benefits life threw at him.

"I've got cells that are a mashup of the two. I'm literally a scientific miracle, since it's technically impossible by biologists' standards for there to be a plant-animal hybrid in existence. Sure, the tech of the future and the genetic research done has proven you can take the gene from a glowing jellyfish and transplant it into a plant, but nobody can properly achieve a plant-animal hybrid with cross-type cells. I was essentially born normal, hit puberty, and then the X-gene triggered the change. It's normal for mutants to have their powers kick in around there."

Harry blinked, mind rushing to comprehend all Corita said. "... You're a human plant? That's your power?"

"Well it's not just that!" she cried, a little flustered. "Most of what I can do is really ridiculous to explain without giving a very long scientific lecture, but I can pull some pretty cool shit."

"Like what?" Potter said childishly, but with his emerald eyes lit with unrestrained curiosity.

Corita stood paused for a moment, her brows furrowed and red irises briefly dimming as she stood facing away from the sunlight. Then she brightened, turning to towards the sun streaming through the windows and turning her eyes vibrant again. He wondered how her eyes could do that, and if it was something to do with her supposed 'plant' abilities. Herbology at Hogwarts did teach him that some magical plants reacted to direct sunlight dramatically, some by pumping their leaves full of their bizarre brand of chlorophyll or combusting. Magic never really did anything in halves, really.

"I can do this, for one," she said, holding out her sun-kissed hand. There were callouses along her long fingers and fore palm, but they were buffed smooth from continued, day-to-day stress. Nothing happened for a beat, emerald irises spotting no change, and Harry was about to open his mouth to say she was mad.

Yet, the surface of her flesh _shifted_.

It was, initially, somewhat disgusting to watch. Corita's skin stretched up from her palm like floppy sludge, sloppily gathering itself up and shooting for the ceiling. The blood vessels faintly visible in her hand seemed to prominently darken, rearranging beneath the surface like worms in a jar, and the morphing clump of flesh began turning green. What seemed like a stringy bit of flesh sticking up dementedly from Corita's palm became a stem, and from it leaves sprouted. Harry watched as the formerly human-like cells that created Jacobs' hand transformed into chlorophyll-stuffed plant cells before his very eyes. A bulb formed, growing rapidly, before promptly blooming, petals bursting outwards. _There_ , flourishing from her own bodily tissues, was a perfect, golden _poppy._

"Bloody hell," Harry verbally vomited, realizing he sounded like Ron.

Corita grinned, "Disturbing but cool, huh? I can make my cells, with stored energy I can absorb through sunlight, become plant-inclined. Depending on what I want do to my body and how much sunlight I take in, I can do all sorts of crazy transformations. I got this secondary mutation too, thanks to some idiots trying to kill me, but it's really just an addition to what I can already do."

Potter winced; it was strange to hear someone besides himself dealing with near-death experiences. Jacobs acted like she was telling him about the weather, not close encounters with the afterlife. She offered her hand, noticing his interest, and Harry couldn't help but reach out to touch the golden poppy. It felt real, the petals velvet soft, and he could faintly smell the scent it naturally possessed. Potter didn't know the exact species, but he knew what a poppy looked like.

"If mutants existed from where I'm from, I'd probably think this was magic," Potter commented.

"Jesus, it sometimes feels like that," Jacobs agreed, "I mean, if you're a human plant and don't know it, you'll think you're going crazy when you can fucking sense all the plant life around you. My middle school years were damn confusing, lemme' tell you."

That did sound a bit hectic. "So is your power the main reason you're under S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, then?"

Corita gave a half-shrug, throwing up her hands in the universal gesture of 'sorta.' She plucked the poppy from her hand, wincing, reverting the appendage back to normal. "That, and the fact I got mixed up in a few major events some years back that gained me unwanted attention. Not all mutants in this world are friendly, Harry; they're more physiologically abused from being discriminated in public society and out to, quote, "prove they're the dominant species" than get along with anybody. Kinda' like the reverse backstory of your Death Eaters, but with the same general bigotry driving their actions."

The young wizard grimaced. "I can't seem to have good enough luck in getting myself stuck in places that aren't filled with danger."

Corita chuckled, twirling the poppy between her fingers before turning back to him. "Apparently not. Do you want to see your room? I wasn't kidding before when I said I'd give you a tour. I bet you're pretty much done with this day. I'd be if I were you; S.H.I.E.L.D. is a slave driver when it comes to protocol and whatnot."

He nodded, possibly a bit too eagerly. "That'd be fantastic, yes."

"Ha-ha, so british!" she joked at his accent, before turning towards the rest of the house.

"Here's the main living area, which is the kitchen, the office-desk-thing I have going, the television-hang-out-dealie, and my indoor garden," she entailed, gesturing freely to each of the allotted spaces. "If you can't figure out from hearing my explanation of what kind of mutant I am, I have a natural inclination for plants. Thus, the indoor garden; and, just as a warning, you'll probably catch Clint calling me Poison Ivy because of his fondness for DC comics."

Not that Potter even knew anything about DC comics; Dudley had a few rag comics he'd nabbed off an unsuspecting kid around Surrey, and most of them involved _Judge Dredd_ , _2000 AD_ , and _Toxic!_ , all of which were silly and science fiction. Maybe it was an American comic rag?

Jacobs swiveled on her heels, wandering over to what Harry suspected to be the closet. He was proven correct as she pulled it open. It reminded him of a smaller version of the Room of Requirement. "This is where the coats, extra clothes, and anything you want to not be found goes. You'll probably find bags of unused plant dirt from Home Depot in there, and a completely ugly poodle skirt some S.H.I.E.L.D. agent shoved off on me," she explained, shivering bodily at the memory of the horrid clothing article. "Have fun searching through it if you ever need something disposable or warm. It's like a fucking abyss in there."

Closing it, she crossed to room to the opposite door, which opened to a short hallway. "Here's the rest of the apartment: the bathroom's at the end, my room is the one on the left, and yours is the right."

Corita wandered to his appointed door, opening it obligingly. Harry looked in, noting the fact the bedroom wasn't much bigger than the room he had at the Dursley's. Maybe only a foot bigger in all directions, but nothing more. It didn't have a window, and the only furniture it had was a mattress, bedframe, a skinny set of drawers, and a little bedside table with a curve-necked reading lamp. A sliding door closet was built into one wall. Atop the drawers, a flower pot containing small jade plant shoots sat quietly.

"It's not much," the mutant girl admitted, "But we can go shopping around for stuff tomorrow, or whenever. Get some posters, maybe paint the walls, clothes, any weird bedroom knick-knacks one ends up buying at the local Target." She shrugged, "S.H.I.E.L.D. gives you a bank account that leaves you pretty happy at the end of the day."

"No, it's fine," spoke Potter, pulling out his wand. Corita blinked at the piece of wood, staring at it curiously.

"Is that your wand?"

Harry paused, looking over at the other teenager and nodding awkwardly. "Err, yes."

"Huh," she said, tilting her head at it. "Eleven inches long, and looks like Holly. A bit too perfectly straight and thick to be normal, but it's Holly."

He blinked. "You really know your plants, don't you?"

She laughed, "Ha, I told you I have a natural thing for plants! Seriously, just start accepting the fact your roomie is a plant mutant. It'll get easier as time goes on.

"Anyway, I'll leave you to whatever you're going to do with that abnormal stick. Don't make too much noise; S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and cranky old retired agents live in this complex. You'll stir up their PTSD and overall paranoia if you make too much racket."

With that, Corita Jacobs left, closing the door behind her. Harry stood staring at the door for a beat, Hedwig chittering on his shoulder, before turning back to his room with wand in hand.

* * *

To say that Potter could sleep in for as long as he wanted, or perhaps bury himself in the covers to drown out the universe and all its rubbish, would be a lie. With his eleven years of living strictly at the Dursley's and then intermittent summers after attending Hogwarts, the young wizard's ability to be as lazy as most teenagers his age had been trained (more like domestically abused) out of him. Instead, Harry woke up automatically at five o'clock in the morning. It was surprising his internal clock had even adjusted to the time table of the bizarre reality he'd found himself, since normally, five o'clock in the morning for England would be midnight hour for New York. But, abnormal occurrences weren't too out there for wizards, and when the teenaged wizard woke up at dawn, he simply accepted the fact that he managed to do that.

Harry was groggy, emerald eyes squinted and the box-spring mattress underneath him creaking as he sat up. He blinked a few times, trying to jump-start his brain, before reaching over to the bedside table for his glasses. Glancing around the room, the young wizard smiled.

It only took a couple of charms, a small bag of marbles he found under the chest of drawers, some mildly impressive transfiguration spells, and a wilted jade leaf to transform his room from the plain personal dwelling into something much more… _homey_.

The walls, previously a dull white, were now a rich burgundy that matched the Gryffindor common room in tone. His bedframe wasn't the sad metal contraption it once was, but the four-poster bedframe Harry liked fondly from his dormitory at Hogwarts. The chest of drawers and bedside table appeared brand new, thanks to a generous number of fixing and cleaning spells. From the bag of marbles, Potter gave himself a storage chest by the foot of his bed, filled with a half-dozen proper wizard's robes he could think to transfigure. Next to the quaint pot of jade plant shoots, his shrunken luggage sat unreformed and unopened. The dried leaf became Hedwig's new perch, positioned close to the door so she could hop on his shoulder as he left the room.

 _And Umbridge thought I couldn't even manage a P on my OWLs_ , Harry thought. If McGonagall could see what he'd done, she'd probably be pleased to know he payed attention in her class during all those earlier years of Hogwarts.

Looking down at himself, the young wizard noticed he'd collapsed into bed still fully dressed, and in the clothes that had been drowned and sopping wet throughout the entire fanfare of S.H.I.E.L.D. He made a face, a little bit disgusted by the faint fishy smell his shirt had. Harry moved to get out of bed and reach for his shrunken luggage, when a loud round of knocking pounded at his door. Hedwig's eyes flashed open, head swiveling to find Potter, before chittering to him.

Stumbling out of bed and briefly stroking his owl's head feathers, Harry opened his door to see whether or not it was his new roomie.

And, unsurprisingly, it was.

"Finally, you're up!" Jacobs declared aloud, throwing up her hands pseudo-dramatically. Corita was dressed in a similar outfit to the one she was wearing when Potter met her yesterday, with a monstrous shirt swallowing her frame and a pair of sweats making her legs look like marshmallows. Her eyes were rust red, which Harry suspected to be due to the fact there was no natural sunlight in the hallway.

"You sleep like the fuckin' dead, dude. I know you jumped worlds or realities or whatever, but locking yourself up in this room at around four and not emerging until five the next morning is _goddamn crazy_. How can you go without eating or drinking for that long? I gotta' drink gallons of water and a nutrient shake _on top of_ normal human food to be happy throughout the day-what the hell?"

Her rust irises were looking past him, taking in the changes he'd done yesterday. Corita's expression was somewhere between childish awe and controlled interest, which resulted in a face displaying pure curiosity.

"Did you do all this with your abnormal Holly stick? Because this-," she gestured around, brushing past Harry without any regret, "-is fucking awesome. I wanna' know if the seed that Holly grew from can give me some hocus-pocus."

Harry floundered for a moment. He'd encountered forward people in his life before, but an American mutant with no obvious qualms was an entirely different entity compared to a British witch or wizard trying to gain his attention. Jacobs seemed perpetually unbothered from what Potter had seen, and her acceptance and awe at proof he could do magic was both relieving yet nerve-wracking. She was a _muggle_ for god's sake, and the teenaged girl's response was to walk right in, glance around, and _pet his owl_.

"You're not afraid of any of this? Or, possibly unnerved? Feeling the need to call me anything?" he suddenly blurted.

Corita blinked, turning to Harry as she continued petting his snowy raptor. "Eh? What, you think I'm going to act like a scared average person?" The girl chuckled, "Oh, honey, you really don't know how fucking weird our world is. I'd actually call you a badass for dressing up this formerly drab room. The starting colors they picked for the rooms was really unflattering."

Harry tried to think up a response, something coherent to say to the girl who was close to him in age. His jaw felt like it was trying to work, but the wizard didn't manage to make his vocal cords process anything. Jacobs noticed his flabbergasted countenance, and quickly dove over to ease the issue.

"C'mon, dude," she said, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him out of the room, "Maybe some food will help you. Ya' look like you really need it."

So the Boy-Who-Lived allowed his new roomie with a plant obsession to guide him out to the kitchen, all the while trying to rearrange his mental furniture as he continued discovering how mad this reality he found himself was.


	4. Experiencing Computers and Food

**Chapter Four: Experiencing Computers and Food**

* * *

Harry, simply put, had never tasted a single morsel of American cuisine. He knew, thanks to stories from various peers at Hogwarts with families who vacationed around during the summer, that their food was really a mess of various cultural dishes and unexpected combinations. Depending on what part of America you found yourself, you could be eating shrimp tacos with a side of state-grown greens, you could be eating deep-fried grits and baby-back ribs, or you could be eating clam chowder with a slice of grape pie. And that was just the tourist food for _muggles_. The American magical community had probably the most complex meal list of all the magical communities, due to the fact so many different regions imported their goods to them. But, the most signature food American wizards and witches ate involved Native American bread products, deer meat, and acorn gruel, an apparent tradition that was observed because of the magical community that had been in place before the new world had been discovered by the Europeans. Their long history of shamans had left an undeniable impact on their cuisine, one fellow at the Gryffindor table had commented.

Thus, watching his new roomie Corita Jacobs whip up something she called an "All-American Breakfast" from his bar seat at the open counter space was more of an educational show than something to assuage his waiting, morning boredom. Harry liked cooking, despite the fact he'd been cooking for three ungrateful relatives without so much as a 'thank you' for numerous years, and he didn't mind perusing cookbooks. He'd read about old-fashioned french recipes in some of Aunt Petunia's mother's cookbooks by Julia Child, and a handful of random books Uncle Vernon would buy his wife for holidays about easy-bake recipes. And, whenever he was left alone with Mrs. Weasley, he'd pick up a few recipes that circulated in cookbooks on the magical community's end. Seriously; one would be shocked by what kind of weird dishes wizards and witches thought up, especially when they danced between potion making and normal cooking. So watching Corita was not only a mild culture shock, but a surprising chance to broaden his knowledge of the culinary realm.

"Yo, stop making goo-goo eyes at my bacon. Good packaged bacon is fuckin' expensive, and I don't need any accidental hocus-pocus turning quality pork strips into shit. Eyes away!"

But the mystical display of an American mutant's culinary prowess quickly lost its luster after she spoke, breaking the silence.

"Can you manage not to use an insult in a sentence?" Harry asked. He hadn't meant to be rude, but it came out somewhat rudely, almost sarcastically. The young wizard was starting to think his new default setting in this reality was going to be permanently sassy. Corita wasn't even slightly bothered.

"Me? Not cuss? Sure, but I grew up around kids who started cursing when they were barely older than ten. I'm not a native-born New Yorker, Harry. 'Was born and raised in Sacramento, California, thank you very much," she answered. Somehow, that made perfectly good sense to Harry; he'd heard quite a few things about California and how diverse the people were.

"My parents still live there, and I have an elder sister who lives in Los Angeles," continued Corita. "Oh, and a godmother. I'm a ninth generation Californian who got shuffled off to Xavier's at fourteen and then secreted away by S.H.I.E.L.D. after I left that private school."

Potter's brow furrowed in confusion, arms crossed and resting on the counter as he waited for his food. "Xavier's?"

"Yeah, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," Jacobs recited, nodding her head of brunette-auburn hair. "It's like your school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, except for mutants and-or extraordinary kids. Mostly mutants, though. They have extra classes, beyond the normal subjects, to teach the students how to control and defend themselves with their talents. Most people in the know call it the X-Mansion."

"So you went to a special school as well? Like Hogwarts?" the young wizard prodded, sounding hopeful and slightly eager. He was desperately trying to draw similarities between his world and theirs, and Xavier's was probably the first. The mutants were the second, due to the fact they sounded like people who were only capable of one type of spell or magical skill. Not that Corita wasn't an excellent example of a Herbologist on steroids, because she _really_ was.

Jacobs hummed in agreement, tapping a bit of salt and pepper on the scrambled eggs she had in a pan. "I did. When I was younger, before I hit puberty, I could go to school like any other kid. My X-gene hadn't activated yet, and none of the genetic shit I have going now was happening then. By middle school, I looked different and interacted with my environment differently. I managed to get away with going to public school by having a disability noted in my record, stating that I had a rare congenital disorder that had been dormant until I became pubescent.

"But, by the time I reached high school, it became obvious that I was a mutant; not a victim of poor genetics. Bullying became a thing, and my mom wouldn't stand for it. So, she researched, she called Xavier's, a teacher from the school interviewed me, and I got enrolled. A week later, I was flown to New Jersey and had been living at the school until just recently. As I said before, certain events put me on the map, so I needed to get protection that'd warn any lurkers off. Thankfully I finished my high school education, so it has all gone over fine."

She turned her head in his direction, "What about you, Harry? From what that report I read said, you've been suffering from some shit events yourself."

Potter scoffed. That phrase wasn't even scratching the surface of what he had to deal with, and what he would have been dealing with if he was still with his friends.

"That's a nicer way of putting it," he spoke, though there was a gruff, mildly bitter tone to it. "I've nearly been killed consistently since I started at Hogwarts, and despite that, I manage to keep up proper marks. Or, I guess you could say _managed_. Before that magical event which you probably know about, all thanks to that report Fury wrote up about me, I was going to skip my last year at school and try to stop a Dark Lord. You've read the report, Corita, you tell me."

"Do I look like somebody who's gonna' give you crap for your history?" she questioned, as blunt as ever. _How does she manage to be so easygoing about everything?_

She wandered over to the two plates she'd set aside, scraping scrambled eggs onto each one equally before grabbing the skillet full of bacon, shaking her head at whatever thoughts that bounced around in her head. "Jesus, Harry. I dunno' how many times I've gotta say this: I'm a mutant; I've been through some shit myself. You're not the only angst bucket gathering rainwater, trust me."

Jacobs finished portioning out bacon and hashbrowns, dumping the dirty pans and spatula in the sink before grabbing each plate. She placed one in front of him, then turned to fetch appropriate utensils and two glasses of milk.

"I hope you drink milk with breakfast," Corita stated, "Because that's what I've been raised on, and I don't make special trips to the store for anybody."

Harry wisely did not try to strike up an argument for orange juice (or pumpkin juice, but that was a drink wizards and witches were fond of; he doubted muggles in this reality ever heard of it). Instead, the young wizard busied himself with eating the tasty breakfast, which he found himself enjoying. It wasn't that much different from his breakfast in the Great Hall, though there was an obvious lack of sausages, muffins, pastries, fresh fruit, and hard-boiled eggs. Potter almost wanted to ask, since Corita was a human plant with a strong affinity for plants of all kinds, if she could provide fruit, but his good manners held him back. Or, really, the twisted manners the Dursley's ingrained into him.

But, without even having to speak, an array of freshly cut strawberries, oranges, apples, and pears appeared to his right, along with Jacobs and her breakfast. He stopped to stare at the girl for a few moments, briefly entertaining the idea of Corita possessing a hidden talent for Occlumency. She responded to his gaze with a confused blink of her rust-cherry red eyes.

"What? I thought you might like some fruit. I don't usually eat any of it, since I get the sugars and nutrients I need through my own plant-energy-photosynthesis-whateverthefuck process, but most people usually like something a little sweet with their first meal of the day."

Potter chewed and swallowed, shaking his head in amusement. "You do not know how much I appreciate that. Hogwarts had a breakfast spread that included fruit."

She still looked at him funny, due to how funny he was acting, but she smirked. "Damn, Harry, you sound like my dad when he gets sentimental. Whatever... _Mágico_."

He shoved her, leaving Corita giggling up a laugh while he made faces. They went about eating, Harry asking after American cooking and Jacobs offering to find him a few cookbooks she knew he'd probably enjoy. She also joked about how a guy who took joy in cooking was in touch with his feminine side, to which he quipped back that it was painfully stereotypical for a girl like her to like flowers. The two quickly found a great amount of amusement in throwing one-liners at each other, sarcastic comments and dry bits of humor at the most. It almost felt, to Potter, that he was talking to a more humorous and casual Hermione. She was undeniably smart, proven to him by her counter argument about girls liking plants with a novel's worth of scientific explanation on why flowers were a statement in progressive evolution, and had the quick wit to keep throwing back every sarcastic remark Harry launched. But, she had charisma that Hermione didn't have; a false sense of dramaticism that was patronizing like Malfoy but delivered with an exact serving of sarcasm. And, well, she cursed like a sailor.

"So what, you magical humans didn't listen to any "muggle" music? I mean, sure, the late nineties wasn't exactly the 'Age of Rock n' Roll,' but there were boy bands and the beginnings of mainstream rap!"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe Hermione did, and I sometimes heard a few tunes on the radio, but no. The wizarding world had their own radio, their own bands, and tried hard to separate themselves from muggles. Remember: I grew up in a sheltered household that chose to hide me in a cupboard than acknowledge my existence. Most of what I know is about the magical community from my reality. Mr. Weasley thought it was a loss to the wizarding world that we didn't try to learn from the muggles, and believed it was the primary reason our society hadn't moved forward in a few hundred years."

"Christ, you're worse than our neighbor across the hall! All he'll listen to is his big band records from the forties and only a smattering of seventies motown. Now I've got two dinosaurs to educate in music," Corita complained, gulping down the little puddle of milk in her glass.

"And what would I need educating in?" the young wizard asked wryly.

"Everything from the thirties up. You're lucky I'm really into music, Harry; and, you know, that I'm a' awesome roomie."

He gave her a look. "I've only known you for part of a day."

"That's good enough for me when it comes to establishing friendships! I mean, we're already sharing breakfast and chatting about your world, I'm being sarcastic with you, and we've come to an agreement that you are a very manly cook and I'm a womanly plant lover. We're officially past the point of strangers and drifting into the _ocean_ of _acquaintanceship_."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Whatever you say, Corita."

"Damn straight," she said, nodding as she gathered their dishes and placed them in the sink. "And, since we're on a vein of conversation where whatever I say goes, I believe the two of us should go out shopping."

Potter blinked. "Didn't you say you don't make special trips to the store?"

"Yeah, I don't, but I realize that you probably can't live a very healthy lifestyle by eating only meat, carbs, and grease like I usually do. I don't really need to watch what normal person food I shovel down my throat, since most of my nutrients and whatever I process through sunlight and specialized drink-shakes I consume. All I need is lots of water, sun, drink-shakes to simulate the absorption of stuff from dirt that plants do, and some carnivorous shit to please my human-animal-cell processes. You, however, need to have a balanced diet."

"Thus the shopping," he said. _To think she doesn't have anything else in cabinets in case of guests..._

She nodded, smirking. "Thus the shopping. Plus, while we're out, I can get you clothes that actually make you 'blend in'," she held up her fingers as air quotes as she spoke with a glint of humor in her rust-cherry red eyes.

"No offense," the mutant girl said, "But your clothes are pretty plain and they don't really fit you right. My inner caregiver feels are telling me I should help you out. Your owl might also need some dead mice or something; I don't really think she'll be able to hunt any of New York's famous pigeons without possibly getting a stomach ache. Not that I'm saying he-she isn't big enough to hunt them… those rats with wings just eat too much crap."

"You really don't like taking trips, do you?" commented Harry.

"Oh, I hate them. No, scratch that, I _loathe_ them. I'm the kind of person to want to get it all done in one go so I can fuck off for a month or so."

"Well, you don't have to buy me anything," the young wizard spoke up kindly, "I can just transfigure what I already have into something more suitable. Just give me an idea on what they should like, and that should be that."

She stared dumbly at him for a beat. "You do not even know how _useful_ that sounds. All I can do is grow fruit n' shit."

"I guess I'm useful for something," he quipped.

Corita rolled her red eyes, absently combing her fingers through her unkept, brunette-auburn hair as she drifted out of the kitchen. "Let me get my laptop running, and I'll let you look up some clothing designs."

Harry watched her pull up the lid of the electronic, pressing a little button to bring the screen to life. He felt awkward again; or out of his depth, if he was going to use a proper phrase. Dudley, sometime in the early 1990s, had been given a computer for his birthday. The young wizard remembered the thing: it was bulky, unattractive, and colored a dull tan. The laptop appeared to be a futuristic version of the ugly monstrosity Dudley spent hours using, with a much larger screen and impressively slim.

"That's your computer?" he asked tentatively.

Jacobs glanced over at Harry, who stood uncomfortably in the middle of the living area, her hand paused in combing her hair. She stared for a moment, like she had been caught up in a jumble of thoughts, before those red eyes of hers lit with realization.

"Shit, I'm sorry! This is the second time I've done that. I keep forgetting you're from the early nineties; you handle everything else so well, I sort of forget. But yeah, this is my computer. It's a laptop, which basically means it's a computer that can sit in your lap or be carried around. Not a completely stationary computer, which you're probably used to seeing."

She waved him over, "Here, sit down. I'll give you a crash course in using new-age tech. Really, after you learn this, it'll be easy to use your phone."

"Phone?"

"Yeah, that communication thing that people carry around obsessively nowadays. Didn't Coulson give you one?"

"Err, more like he gave me a thin rectangle of glass and called it a phone."

"Dude, that's the fanciest version of a StarkPhone! It may _look_ like nothing, but it's seriously advanced tech. I'm actually kinda jealous. Maybe I can guilt-trip Tony into giving me one… " Corita expressed.

"Oh, my laptop's booted up. Okay, Harry, here's how it goes…"

Jacobs spent a few minutes explaining everything, clicking through it all at rapid speeds before leaving Harry to try on his own. It was a pretty simple operating system, generally, much like the old systems back in the nineties. _I will never admit that I spent a few hours on Dudley's computer when they were out of the house; Solitaire kept my boredom away_.

"So I just 'Google' whatever I want to look up?"

"Yep. Type in something."

"...Wow, that's a lot of links to websites."

"Google only puts that estimate there so you don't feel discouraged about your web search. Did you really have to look up owls?"

"It was the first thing I could think of to type, Corita," Harry said flatly.

"Well, amend that and search 'pet owl food' or something. Since we're going to go out and around sometime today, you can look up where we can get your snow owl something to eat."

Harry frowned at the backlit screen upon changing his search, adjusting his sliding glasses. "These are all sites on how I can take care of an owl, not where I can buy food."

"Okay then, change your phrasing."

The young wizard went on changing what he entered into the Google search box, but continued getting the same general results. Corita was becoming less than patient.

"This is ridiculous. I know people who have pet owls, and they manage to get food! Harry, type in Petsmart; the words are run-together."

"Like this?"

"Yeah, go."

"...Alright, what do I enter in their search box?"

"What the fuck do you think, ya' nimrod? Type rats or mice, maybe chicks. Your bird probably would want a rat, since they're bigger than a mouse-sized morsel."

"You really need to get better at cursing less." He glanced at the results, "Merlin, look at all the pet stuff they've got for rats! What is this?"

"Welcome to America, Harry; we waste our money on pets and get fat from eating too much fast food. Keep scrolling."

"It's a bloody rat; it doesn't need all this rubbish. Ron fed his rat scraps and it was perfectly happy."

"Wasn't that rat a shape-shifting wizard in disguise?"

"That's beside the point."

"Just keep scrolling, _Mágico_. There! Frozen rats, all in various packs. A bit pricey, though."

"Seventy-one dollars and ninety-nine cents for a hundred rats? That's nearly a hundred in cost."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. If you need a cost equivalent, that much money can buy you three or four steaks from the cheap side of the grocery store spectrum here," she said dryly.

"We can't possibly spend that much money."

"Harry, you _do_ know that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave you a huge amount of money, right? They're expecting you to be buying furniture, clothes, and other shit; that you'll be completely rebuilding your household from scratch. Instead, you used that bippity-boppity-boo stick and essentially made your own. You have plenty unspent cash to recklessly blow on your owl."

The young wizard wasn't completely confident in the organization that now held his life in their hands. All his life, he was either without money by the order of his cruel relatives or rich beyond compare thanks to the money he inherited from his parents and godfather. Money, either in pounds or wizard currency, was not a problem because he had none or not a problem because he had so much. Harry had lived by that vice-versa pattern. But now, in a reality where he had _nothing_ but was apparently promised _something_ , Harry felt a bit unsure. Would he have to owe them? _Most likely, the sneaky dunderheads._ He really didn't want to be tied down by anything, or be indebted to the wrong sort of people. Perhaps it was inevitable, since S.H.I.E.L.D. had been the one to find him and fish his sorry buttocks out of the Thames.

Harry just didn't like how the idea of owing secretive, underhanded types anything; it was comparable to dealing with Slytherins on a bad day.

"I don't exactly have a way of proving I have that sort of money," he said at last.

"Easy; call up Coulson and request a credit card. The man was probably flustered by the fact I slammed the door on him and didn't give you the rest of your stuff. I have a bad habit of getting on his nerves sometimes."

"A credit card?"

"Please don't tell me you don't know what a credit card is. American Express has been around since 1958, and you were fuckin' born in the eighties."

"..."

"Oh, _motherfucking Jesus Christ!_ "

"I'm a wizard, and my relatives were arses!" he defended.

"Doesn't mean I don't want to strangle them with climbing roses or grapevines! Hell, maybe I'd feed them Manchineel, better known in some circles as the 'little apple of death,' and watch them have seizures on the floor! You're so isolated culturally, dude, it's basically a social handicap!"

"... You are right terrifying when you plot the murder of people with plants," Harry stated.

"I can produce natural toxins found in plants at will; it's another reason S.H.I.E.L.D. watches me. I can kinda kill people by covering my hands in thorns and slapping them in the face."

"Ow?"

Corita rolled her red eyes. "C'mon, Harry, just go look up clothing styles of 2012, call Coulson about a credit card, and get ready to go out the door. I need to go prepare shit, water all my plants, and fix my hair into something more presentable. Don't you dare type in anything about porn while I'm busy, or I'll poke your epidermis full of phorbol and watch your arm break out into a gruesome rash."

* * *

There was something to be said about Corita Jacobs and the spectacle she displayed herself as when walking the streets of Manhattan. When she had said " _I need to go prepare shit_ ," the teenaged girl had actually meant she needed to outfit herself in a completely different getup from what she had solely worn around Harry. Gone were the unflattering baggy sweats, the overly-large shirts, and the glasses that hung about her neck by braided string. In their place was a pair of men's cargo pants in military green (which suspiciously bore the logo of S.H.I.E.L.D. on the right thigh pocket), an abused set of athletic shoes, a black canvas slide belt, a bright red sports bra, and an exceedingly baggy tank top that hung at her ribs. It wasn't exactly a blizzard outside, but one wouldn't be seeing Harry walking around in anything without sleeves or fabric that didn't hug his lower torso.

Then the backpack; no, it wasn't a Jansport or something you'd normally see a high schooler tote around. It was a deluxe Camelbak, what Corita called "the Mule," capable of holding a gallon of water in a plastic reservoir and two extra plastic reservoirs to drink down. The little blue tube hung from the corner of her mouth, which she sucked on absently as they walked along the sidewalks of New York. In her free hand was what she called a "nutrient shake," which appeared revolting with its sluggish consistency and unappetizing, vomit green color. In all, with Jacobs' hair tied up and pinned back to her skull, the teenaged girl was a bizarre statement in fashion and essential outdoor gear.

"Do you really need all that water? And that mush?"

Corita's cherry red eyes, with its murky pupils and mesmerizing texture, glared at Harry.

"I told ya,' Harry; I'm a goddamn plant. I've got sun energy sinking into my skin, my eyes and hair are vibrantly red with my bizarre brand of plasma-chlorophyll, and the water I'm slowly sipping at in combination with this shake _feed me_. Did you know I have to drink over five gallons of liquid before I actually have to go to the bathroom? Even that breakfast I had wasn't enough for my body to actually dispose of any unneeded material."

The young wizard wrinkled his face, "That's not something I wanted to know."

"You made an open-ended inquiry, dude. I just took it upon myself to respond. That beanie really goes with your outfit, by the way."

Harry smiled awkwardly, while inwardly he felt like screaming. He'd done his best with transfiguring his marbles-transformed-into-robes that he had stored in his chest into current age muggle clothing. A pair of faded blue jeans, colorful athletic shoes (he went for the most inoffensive pair, which were silver grey and indigo), a collared flannel with muted Gryffindor tones, a heavy indigo hiking jacket with plenty of pockets, and a scarf he nicked from his school robes (also Gryffindor colors, with the Hogwarts emblem emblazoned at one end). The young wizard almost felt like he was using his school house as a mental crutch, which he might have subconsciously been doing. Then, Corita appeared with a burgundy beanie, shoving it over his wild head of hair. She'd commented that his scar looked too weird for people to ignore, and that it was probably best if the two of them kept a low profile. _How exactly are we going to do that if she's whomping about with a water-bearing pack and that infernal mush of nutrients?_

"You're horrible," he said.

"I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, dude, tell me about what was going on before you plopped into the Thames. You seem somewhat high-strung and almost needy when it comes to involving golden yellow and velvet red in your wardrobe."

"Here? Right now?"

"Why not? We're keeping a low profile, and if anybody hears anything about wizards, dark lords, or magic will think you're talking about a book. Hell, maybe a videogame. So, go; spill, _Mágico._ "

He scowled, shoving his hands under his pits. _A little chilly._ They walked down the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes, Harry taking a moment to calm himself and Corita a moment to chug down her nutrients. The streets weren't exceedingly busy, since it was only six-something in the morning and most of the New York commute rush began around six-thirty. The two walked side-by-side, and nobody even glanced their way. Harry absently wondered if normal people subconsciously sensed Corita and went out of their way to avoid her, but figured that was nothing but a coincidence.

"I'm not sure where to start."

"Well, the beginning is often the best place."

"The beginning of my year at Hogwarts wasn't extremely interesting."

"Oh, c'mon, Harry. I'm a unique flower, but I don't know anything about wizards. Describe, detail, extrapolate!"

He shifted his shoulders awkwardly, snuggling his arms against his upper torso. "In order to get to Hogwarts, you have to board a train. It's in King's Cross station, on platform nine and three-quarters. After you get off the train, you either take boats across the Black Lake to the castle-"

"Woah, a castle? Like, a King Arthur-level castle, or a wildly overdone castle?"

Harry paused, chuckling a little at Corita's plain interest in the simpler aspects of his magical world. "I guess a bit of both; there are staircases that magically move inside."

"Shit that's cool."

"Yeah, it is at first," the young wizard agreed. "Anyway, you can get to the castle by boat as a first year and the rest take carriages. You enter through the courtyard, where the teachers lead you into the Great Hall. The ceiling literally reflects the sky; if it's night, you can see stars."

"That must have been awesome to see as a kid. I'd find that awesome now, if I could see it."

"You probably would, except for when it decided to simulate a vicious thunderstorm. It was trying to kill the dark wizard that had infiltrated the castle as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the year. The wizard managed to charm it back to normality."

"Crazy stuff."

Their conversation went back and forth like that as they wandered through the crowded streets of New York, with Harry regaling to Corita his recent school year. She badgered him incessantly about Herbology, forcing him to divulge all that he could remember off the top of his head about magical plants. He told her about Neville and his penchant for magical plants, how he had been a bit of a clumsy person when they were young, and how he joined the DA during his fifth year because of his parents in St. Mungo's. Then the conversation turned to the uncomfortable topic of wizard hospitals, to the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries, and to the death of his godfather. Corita listened, unfazed, though at times wincing at what was said.

"Jesus, Harry, you're one tough chicken. I'd like to think I'm that resistent to strife and chaos, but I think I'd have crumbled if I was in your place. I can see why some of the wizarding community sees you as a hero; you're two points short of earning sainthood from what you've been telling me. You, and your friends."

"What about you?" he asked, "You said you'd been put under protection because of recent events?"

"I wouldn't say recent, but I wouldn't say it was too far into the past. There was this mutant, Jean Grey, who was an Omega-level mutant. By definition, that means it's a superhuman being that either has the unholy gift of immortality, god-like powers, or an ability that allows someone to have a vast amount of control over matter and energy," she recounted. "I, at the time, hadn't really shown off my powers. Our principal, Charles Xavier, thought I was hiding my true potential. Apparently I was, because I went from nearly choking on pollution one moment to literally using it to heal my body like a plant on photosynthesis steroids. Jean had this insane second personality that basically personified her power, and it was hellbent on destroying everything; it called itself the Phoenix. When Wolverine, a fellow Omega-level mutant who has some serious metal claws, couldn't manage to stop her, I… W-Well, there's a very beautiful oak tree with scarlet leaves and pale bark in the middle of a trashed facility now that nobody dares to dig up," Corita finished quietly.

Potter stared at the young woman dumbly. The formerly charitable mood dove dangerously into darker waters, and the wizard was hyper aware of it.

"You melded her into the tree, didn't you?" he spoke low and tentatively. Professor Sprout had told his class back in second year a few tales of mentally unstable witches and wizards that immortalized their lovers by magically growing a tree with their body, but the fact that Corita had the ability without a single ounce of magic was… mildly unnerving but not completely unexpected. He found himself surprised at his easy acceptance.

"It was either that, or everyone would die," the young woman stated, "She's still alive, just… simpler, I guess. Once a week I visit her, have conversations that only plant people like me and her could exchange, water her roots. I hung ornaments on her branches for Christmas last year, helping her to feel festive."

"Did.. Did you know her well before?"

"Yeah, she was one of the teachers at the school. Real nice, and still is, as long as her second personality doesn't surface. Sometimes it does, and the chlorophyll in her scarlet leaves literally flare an angry neon red as she shouts abuse at me. I know Wolverine sits under her canopy and drinks a bottle of whiskey until there's about a cup left. Idiot pours it on her roots, but Jean never seems to protest."

They fell to silence for a few minutes, the two of them not making eye contact as they walked close to shoulder, until Harry seemed to have gathered his courage. Touching her shoulder, the wizard held her attention.

"Don't drown yourself in all that happened. My godfather, Sirius Black, died partly because of me and partly by the wand of his crazed cousin. I still… I feel I am to blame, and sometimes I dream about his death. About the Veil… about the beckoning voices. Don't allow yourself to drown, Corita. I still don't know you well at all, but I know enough that I think you probably don't deserve to suffer."

It was Corita's turn to stare dumbly at him, as a faint smile slowly grew into a slightly watered grin. "For a dude close to my age, you have a way with words."

And like that the serious moment was completely shattered, and Harry sighed in a dramatic fashion that would have made Malfoy jealous. "C'mon, you. I think that's the shop you had me look up on your computer up there. Petsmart, right?"

Corita stared up ahead, where a pharmacy and an Urban Outfitters framed the pet shop on either side. "That be the one," she remarked, glancing over at her roommate, "Ready to experience new-age shopping?"

"Not at all."


End file.
